


The Quiet Men

by Acatnamedeaster, suitesamba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Art, M/M, Minor Character Death, Snarry-A-Thon16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-08 08:58:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acatnamedeaster/pseuds/Acatnamedeaster, https://archiveofourown.org/users/suitesamba/pseuds/suitesamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eileen and Tobias Snape want to reconcile with their estranged son. They enlist the help of Harry Potter. Harry has a friendship with Severus and hopes for more. Will helping the Snapes hurt Harry's chances?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Quiet Men

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the mods for overseeing yet another wonderful fest, and to the very lovely badgerlady, for all of your help.

Harry Potter settled down at his desk with a scone and a mug of tea, then glanced at his calendar to check his appointments for the day. He had a consultation at ten-thirty, lunch with Arthur Weasley to discuss a case coming in from the Ministry, and two hours in the afternoon to prepare for his appearance in front of the Wizengamot the following day.

This wasn’t the career he’d envisioned. Some would say it wasn’t a career at all, in fact, as he usually didn’t accept payment for his services. But legitimate career or not, he’d been at it for nearly ten years, and it consumed far more than forty hours each week. 

Harry Potter, the child without a voice, spoke for people.

People without voices. People who were powerless. People who’d lost their families. Children orphaned, Muggle-borns disenfranchised. People on the wrong side who just wanted to get on with their lives.

In the very beginning, before the orphans, and the displaced, the disenfranchised, Harry Potter had spoken for Severus Snape.

Despite the damage to his neck, Snape had a voice. He simply would not use it to improve his own condition.

A condition that was compromised. Accused of murder, of treason, Dumbledore’s spy sat in Azkaban, refusing to defend himself.

So Harry spoke up for him.

And after that, the voiceless beat a path to his door.

They found him at Hogwarts that next year, as he studied for his N.E.W.T.s. They found him in Diagon Alley, in Hogsmeade, at the Ministry when he started Auror training, at the Burrow during Ron and Hermione’s wedding.

They found him at Grimmauld Place when he resigned from the Aurors, leaving the clean-up to more passionate people, to people who wanted to fight with their hands instead of with their hearts.

After a time, they found him at the office he kept in Diagon Alley, the little storefront with just enough room for a desk and table and comfortable chair or two, a small storeroom for his files, and a tiny kitchen and bath. 

The new location worked well for him. He began each day with a visit to Hermione’s office to review pending cases, then dropped into the joke shop and had coffee with Ron and George while George went through the post and Ron opened the till. He settled into his own space by ten o’clock, and at three, picked Teddy up from school and walked him back to the joke shop where he helped Angelina restock and clean up until Andromeda came for him at four thirty.

It was a slow life, a quiet life, steady and peaceful. It was everything he thought he hadn’t wanted. He had friends, old and new, family in Teddy and Andromeda and the Weasleys, and a dream he dared not mention of having someone to call his own one day.

He had his heart set on someone in particular, but they’d settled into a cautious friendship after the war, a friendship that was tested enough by the past, he thought, without the added stress of something more.

His appointment was due at any time now, so he took out the letter he’d received by owl several days before and read the familiar words once again.

_Mr. Potter: You spoke for our son when he would not speak for himself. Now, we ask you to be our bridge back to him over a deep rift and a long separation. Will you see us at your Diagon Alley location Tuesday next so we may present our case?_

The letter, formally composed and written on stiff parchment, was signed “Eileen and Tobias Snape.”

There was a time when he’d have thought this impossible. But he’d learned that the past was not always as he imagined it, nor as it had been painted by others. No one, including Severus himself, had ever told him that Snape’s parents were dead. He’d assumed it – Snape had lived in his childhood home at Spinner’s End with no parents present or even mentioned. The memories of Snape that Harry had been gifted, along with those he’d witnessed during Occlumency his fifth year, had woven a complicated and all too familiar tapestry of poverty and neglect, a pallor of unhappiness from stem to stern. Harry had always assumed that it was death that had broken the family apart and left Severus alone at Spinner’s End – but he shouldn’t have been so naïve. There were forces far more powerful than death in this world to separate people. Evil. Alcohol. Misunderstanding. Desperation.

Even magic. 

He’d sent a return owl with an appointment card. And in the days that followed, he’d thought often about Tobias Snape, who hated everything, including magic. 

People change, he told himself. They have regrets. They seek forgiveness.

Some even forgive.

Severus though….

In the years of their acquaintance, ten years now since Voldemort’s last breath, and in the past few years of their friendship, Harry had learned that Severus didn’t reminisce. He didn’t talk about the past. Harry realised he hadn’t expected to survive Voldemort, and when he found himself alive but in prison, he hadn’t expected to ever leave it. When at last he was free – of Voldemort, of the Ministry, of Azkaban, of the wretched Dark Mark – he picked himself up and moved on.

Few people got as many second chances as Severus Snape. Harry didn’t think he’d ever looked back. 

He looked up from his musings when the door leading to the street opened with its tell-tale squeak, and Eileen and Tobias Snape entered his office.

He’d steeled himself for the moment, practicing his professional smile, his easy greeting, his welcoming handshake. He’d already arranged two comfortable chairs side by side in front of his desk, angled slightly toward each other. He had a tea service beside him and a kettle on a timer in the kitchen – making tea the English way in deference to Severus’ Muggle father.

Eileen was at least eighty years old – grey hair drawn back into a tight bun, less lean, less angular, barely recognisable as the woman in the newspaper clippings Hermione had found all those years ago, or in the memories he’d seen of Severus’ first trip to Platform 9 ¾. And there was an air about her that made him take notice – less stern, he thought. Older. Wiser. As if the years had somehow blessed her with more patience, more kindness, rounding off the sharp edges. She wore a severe grey dress with a dab of lace at the collar – not robes, but the Muggle equivalent, he realised. Her face was lined with age, wrinkled and worn, and her eyes were of the darkest brown, nearly black, and covered by spectacles with narrow oval frames.

At her side was a man of her own age or older, white-haired, stooped and wrinkled. But when he saw Harry, he smiled amiably, then looked around the office curiously as his wife settled him into a chair. 

“So where is he, then?” he asked in a faltering voice. “This son of ours?”

“Severus,” she said quietly. “Our son is Severus.”

“Of course it’s Severus. Don’t recall having another one.” He pulled at the fabric at the knees of his trousers. “Blowing things up in his room still, is he?” 

He winked at Harry, and Harry saw a spark of happiness flit across Eileen’s face as her husband’s memory settled on something old and familiar. 

Harry walked around to meet them, extending his hand and shaking first Eileen’s, then Tobias’, then excusing himself to get the kettle as it whistled in the kitchen, leaving them to get settled.

Eileen cooled Tobias’ tea with a charm, and placed a chocolate biscuit on his saucer. He seemed delighted to have it – Harry had chosen a variety Severus enjoyed, and this hadn’t gone unnoticed by his mother.

Eileen spoke for some time, with little prompting, while Tobias ate another biscuit, and sipped his tea, and looked at her, seeming to pay attention – frowning at some things, smiling at others – but his gaze soon wandered and Harry quietly handed the morning Muggle paper to Eileen, and she passed it to her husband, who looked at it as if he’d just received a birthday gift he’d long wanted.

Harry had a very hard time not staring at everything they did and said. These were Severus’ parents. 

_His parents._

His gaze moved from Tobias back to Eileen as she began to explain the rift between them without emotion, as if retelling a story she’d read in a book, or perhaps rehearsed until she could repeat it in her sleep – the hard times, Tobias’ problem with alcohol, her family disinheriting her when she married a Muggle. Tobias’ hatred – or jealousy – of magic. And she spoke of Severus’ anger, how he fell in with the Death Eaters, with the Dark Lord, and how she had at last abandoned Spinner’s End knowing Tobias would stand no chance when Severus was forced to choose. 

“I don’t suppose he’ll want to have much to do with us,” Eileen said stoically as she ended her tale. “He doesn’t change his mind about things. But I’d like him to see his da’ one more time, while the disease hasn’t progressed too far and there’s still a good chance he’ll know him.”

“And you?” Harry asked, wrapping his cold fingers around his mug of tea, trying to take in the story and rearrange all that he’d thought was true. “What do you want for you, Mrs. Snape?”

She shook her head, her mouth firmly set. “This isn’t about me, Mr. Potter,” she said. “This is about Severus and Tobias – about a father and his son.”

“He got tall,” Tobias said as he shook Harry’s hand at the door. “Taller than his old man. Sons should be, you know. Look here.”

He extracted a battered wallet from his pocket with some difficulty, and opened it, then carefully, with shaking fingers, removed a faded Muggle photograph of a teenaged Severus.

“Not the best likeness, but that’s him. He’s got his mum’s eyes.”

“He does. He certainly does,” Harry had agreed.

It wasn’t until they were gone, Eileen holding Tobias’ elbow as she guided him out the door and down the street, that he realised – happily – that she hadn’t fawned over him at all, or thanked him for his part in the war, or said or done anything to indicate he was anything more special than a man helping her piece her family back together.

He puzzled out Eileen’s statement about fathers and sons over the week as he went on with his other cases, and considered what he should do with this one. He’d promised her an answer in a week, but he was at a loss still, unsure. If it were anyone other than Severus, he’d contact him immediately, arrange an initial meeting.

But this was Severus. Severus who had learned not to look back for fear of what he might find lurking in the corners.

Severus, the friend with whom he shared peaceful evenings in the Hogwarts herb garden, strolls around the Great Lake, quiet games of chess in the headmaster’s office. Severus was his private island, the friend he didn’t have to share – who wasn’t half of another couple, or part of a group of drinking buddies, or one of his Hogwarts friends with whom he’d spent half his childhood.

And that was it- wasn’t it? He and Severus didn’t talk about the past – not about their past animosities, not about Lily or James, and not about Horcruxes or Dumbledore or Voldemort. They’d developed a comfortable present – talking about the day’s events, problems at work, or plans for the summer. They’d learned to communicate without too many words, Harry falling into Severus’ patterns readily, finding that he quite liked sitting on the castle steps watching the sun go down, or exploring the coast while Severus scraped lichen off stones, Harry scrambling about on the rocks, exploring the tidal pools with the sea breeze ruffling his hair. 

And he didn’t want to risk losing it– this peaceful camaraderie they’d formed. And intruding on Severus’ life like this – presenting him with not only a piece of his past, but a painful one – well, he didn’t want that hanging out there between them.

But how could he _not_?

In the end, there was only one option.

Severus’ parents. Severus’ life.

Severus’ decision.

ooOOOOoo

“I met your parents on Tuesday.”

Severus’ hands, buried in the loose earth of the herb garden outside the greenhouses at Hogwarts, stilled momentarily, then began moving again.

“That could not have been a chance meeting,” he said.

“No – it wasn’t. They made an appointment to see me. They’ve asked me to speak to you – to speak for them.”

Harry had been standing quietly watching Severus work since he Apparated in five minutes before, but he sat down on the ground now opposite Severus.

Severus finished setting the dragon mint plant then brushed off his hands and looked over at Harry.

“As they have waited this long to approach me, I can only surmise that one of them is ill.”

They stared at each other for a very long moment, then Severus reached for another seedling and continued his work as he spoke.

“My father. I’m actually surprised he’s still alive. His liver should have failed years ago.” He sounded just the slightest bit cynical.

“Not his liver,” Harry corrected. He watched Severus hands as they pushed aside the already loose soil. He could watch Severus like this for hours – he was so precise – so exact – about everything he did.

“No?” Severus kept working, moving a foot or two to the left to continue planting the dragon mint.

“No.” Harry considered a moment, then decided that nothing he could reveal was likely to upset Severus too much, not since he’d thought his father already dead. “It’s his mind. Alzheimer’s, or some sort of dementia. Your mother didn’t say but it was obvious enough.”

He let his words settle in, knowing he’d said enough. He didn’t need to fill in the silence with needless details while Severus considered.

“She wishes me to make amends with him while he still retains some semblance of his former self,” Severus said, all traces of cynicism gone from his voice. It was so neutral he could have been commenting on the weather. He dusted the dirt off his fingers and looked over at Harry. “Does he remember me?”

“He remembers you,” Harry answered. “He carries your photograph in his wallet.”

Severus stared at him until Harry gave a sheepish sigh.

“Fine. He may think you’re a bit younger than you are.”

“A bit younger?” Severus asked. Harry smiled – he thought Severus sounded the slightest bit amused.

“Well – whatever age you were when you were upstairs in your room blowing things up.”

Severus had busied himself once again with the seedlings. He made another depression in the loose earth, set the plant and covered the roots. “I spent the majority of my summers blowing things up in my room. It was far better than watching things blow up downstairs with my father.”

“Ah.” The silence stretched out, but Harry wasn’t uncomfortable. He’d learned the value of thinking before speaking, or taking time to voice well-considered words in these past years.

“I don’t blame them,” Severus said at last. “I am responsible for my own choices – all of them.” He shook off his hands again, stood, then brushed the dirt from his knees. 

“Would you like me to tell them that?” Harry asked. He had relayed many messages more difficult than that. “That you don’t blame them?”

Severus shook his head. “I’ll tell them myself – if you will arrange a meeting.”

“You know I will,” Harry answered. “It’s what I do.”

“It’s one of the things you do,” Severus said. 

But he didn’t elaborate, and Harry watched him work in silence until all the seedlings were planted.

ooOOOOoo

Years later, when Harry thought back to the day Severus saw his parents for the first time in thirty years, he would remember Eileen’s weathered face as Severus stood to greet her, how her eyes took him in, her cautious smile, how Severus bent stiffly to brush a formal kiss on her wrinkled cheek. He’d remember what Severus said - a quiet _Mother_. A simple acknowledgement.

It was enough.

And he’d remember – how could he ever forget? – the look on Tobias Snape’s face as Severus turned to him. As their eyes met.

[ ](http://www.snapepotterfests.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/grandpasnape2.jpg)

The panic in the old man’s eyes. How he cowered, raised his arm to cover his face. 

“Da?”

The fear in his tremulous voice. The disbelief. 

Severus’ face – as he understood.

“No – Tobias. No – it’s Severus. Your son – he’s all grown up now.” 

Tobias stumbling backward, shaking his head.

Severus disappearing as Harry helped calm Tobias, as he plied him with tea and biscuits and admired the photograph of Severus Tobias once again extracted from his wallet.

Eileen shaking Harry’s hand, holding it tightly and thanking him, and he wanted to say _For what?_ but instead told her that they’d try it again – that he’d talk with Severus, and figure something out.

Severus – sitting at the tiny kitchen table, head in his hands.

“He thought you were his father,” Harry dared to say, sitting down across from him, keeping his voice low. “He was afraid of you.”

“I didn’t know,” Severus said, his voice catching. Harry reached out and took his arm, squeezing it in solidarity. 

And Severus looked up at him, helplessly, and Harry knew that he’d made his peace with his father in that short, ill-fated visit. 

That Eileen had had her way.

ooOOOOoo

Summer passed quietly, and Severus made peace with his mother too.

Tobias passed away quietly in his sleep in August, and Severus stood by Eileen in the churchyard, and dropped a handful of dirt in his grave.

Harry went to Spain with Teddy and Andromeda, and spent a week on the shore listening to the waves, and the wind, and the laughter of children. He came back brown and rested – yet restless. He visited the churchyard with Severus, standing among the sleeping, silent souls, the quiet ones, the voiceless. 

And suddenly had something to say.

“I want more,” he said, words heavy in the stillness. “From you.”

Beside him, Severus turned his head and gazed at him, not at all startled by Harry’s words.

“You spend so much time speaking for others – I was wondering if you’d ever speak for yourself.”

“Have you been waiting long, then?” asked Harry, smiling at Severus, the weight of a thousand what-ifs melting away with the words.

“I have.”

“Git. You could have told me.”

And Harry kissed Severus in the churchyard, and no one there seemed to think it odd at all.

ooOOOOoo

Sometimes they make love quietly, as if someone is in the room just outside the door, able to hear the faintest sigh, a throttled moan. Harry bites his lip as Severus drives into him, swallowing his breathy moans, muting the uttered oaths - _Oh god – oh god – right there…._ Sometimes, Severus covers his mouth with his hand, and Harry bites the flesh of the palm as Severus’ cock presses into him, stretching him, filling him, sliding out again as Severus whispers in his ear, words only Harry will ever hear, so quiet are they, so private, so utterly theirs. Sometimes, Harry swallows Severus’ cock and hums around it, a braille-like melody Severus can only feel. And Severus cards his hands through Harry’s messy hair, and traces the shell of his ear with an elegant finger, and contorts his face as ecstasy washes over him, swallowing every sound, every syllable.

But sometimes, sometimes – on stormy nights when the wind howls outside – they make love with no restraint, giving voice to every base and guttural sound the body can make. Sometimes Harry keens when Severus prepares him, when dexterous, oiled fingers graze his prostate, when they bury themselves inside him – two, then three, four - and he begs for it, and presses back onto those fingers, demanding more, all of it – of Severus - all of him. Sometimes Harry mewls when Severus splays him over the bed, and works him with his tongue, or swallows his cock, or nips at his bollocks, or his nipples, just enough to tease, just on the edge of pain.

And always, always, after they make love, they speak in quiet voices, wrapped in each other’s arms. Perhaps declarations of love, or promises of forever, but more often than not a quiet laugh as Severus steals Harry’s pillow, or a reminder to buy milk, or a trivial anecdote from an ordinary day.

They do not speak of Tobias Snape. Of the kind of father he was, or his father before him. But Severus visits his mother, and brings her a balm for her arthritis, and sometimes Harry comes along. The little dog Tobias left behind lies at Severus’ feet, and he cannot help but bend down to scratch its wiry head, and before too long the dog is beside him on the sofa and he drinks Eileen’s tea and shares his biscuit with the pup.

They do not dwell in the past. They live in the present and look toward the future and keep their eyes on each other. 

And when they stand at last on the edge of time, sand slipping away beneath their tired feet, they’ll sit quietly side by side as the setting sun fades, two quiet men gone home.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment here or at [Livejournal](http://snape-potter.livejournal.com/3618899.html), [Insanejournal](http://asylums.insanejournal.com/snape_potter/1570330.html), or [Dreamwidth](http://snape-potter.dreamwidth.org/873271.html).


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